


Ravensong

by outcastsnmagic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Class Differences, Class Issues, Fae Bilbo Baggins, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Shapeshifter Bilbo, familial tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outcastsnmagic/pseuds/outcastsnmagic
Summary: With Durin's Day and his official public coronation upon the horizon Thorin finds himself overwhelmed at the prospect of taking on the responsibilities of a crown prince. In a last minute attempt to hold on to a thread of childhood freedom he meets an unlikely individual and discovers a world he knew nothing about.
Relationships: Bofur/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Dale

To say he felt bad about organizing an elaborate plan to escape his afternoon tutoring session would be a lie, as the thought of his tutor going on a panicked frenzy through the kingdom muttering— _“Where has the prince gone?! Durin’s beard the King is going to have my head!”_ —was more amusing in his imagination when he didn’t have to think about being guilty. Besides, Master Dori could use a little excitement now and then considering how much the tutor fussed over this and that like a mother hen. And Thorin made sure that someone would be there to deal with any collateral should the fact he was missing actually get out. The last thing he wanted was to send the whole kingdom into a frenzy looking for him. It would be a hassle for everyone involved and he would certainly not be allowed out of the sight of his father for the next week at minimum.

Thorin blanched at the idea of such a mess. The point of all this was to get out and do something other than sit behind a desk and learn about how to be a king, even if he had to be sneaky about it. It wasn’t often he was presented with an opportunity to venture outside the gates of Erebor and if he was going to do this he wanted get the most out of it as he could. No hassle of having an escort of guards or needing to hold up niceties and having to present himself as the crown prince under the drawn back personalities and reserved looks of everyone. Not this time.

As he snuck closer to the gates he threw the worn traveler’s cloak Dwalin had lent him over his shoulders. It was big enough to cover most of his robes and had a deep hood that would allow him to conceal his hair beads. He was also given a small pack. If he was going to try and pass as a commoner he needed to look the part somewhat. 

One massive disadvantage of being the crown prince was most everyone was expected to recognize him and most did. Those who could not recognize him by face could simply look to his garb. While he wasn’t required to wear the amount of decoration that his father had, he did have to wear robes in the distinguished Durin blue reserved for those of the royal line only. Today, though, he wore a simple black robe with green trim and silver embroidery and a brown leather belt, which held his knife. It was the plainest garment he could find in his wardrobe and hopefully it was enough that he could at least pass as a well off merchant. 

Up ahead Thorin could there was a group of merchants waiting to get their permits stamped. They were dressed rather well, most likely jewel traders from the Iron Hills if the boar motif on their cloaks were anything to go by. Thorin approached the group as casually as he could, staying back a bit when a guard returned with their leader. The group bustled into movement, securing their chests and packs eagerly as the gates opened to let them exit. Thorin trailed after them, but close enough that he would look like he was part of the group but not so close that they might suspect his presence. A guard patrol passed them on the left, causing Thorin to shrink back into his hood a little more, heart racing. To his luck the guards kept their eyes forward and he let out a small sigh of relief. He was past the gates. 

It wasn’t until the group made it to the main crossroad that Thorin slowly broke off from the group and turned down the southwest road, excitement bubbling in his chest. He hurried his way down the dirt pathway, passing a few groups of merchants along the way but not paying them much mind. 

His eyes were set on the city of Dale.

\--

It was high noon so the square was at capacity. All manner of folk from Dale and abroad wondered leisurely among the stalls gazing wondrously at the riches and splendor of handcrafted silks, brewed berry meads, fine wines and minced meat pies. With Durin’s Day upon them within the coming week, and the royal coronation, Erebor, Dale and the surrounding area would be host to nobles and royals from across Middle Earth. It was both the opportune moment and the most dangerous time to attempt lift one of the most valuable items in existence.

They were crouched in the alleyway just off the central market, Bofur running himself through the details of his task and making note of all possible scenarios. He had two exits to consider; one would lead him down toward the front gate, which proved an advantageous route due to the wagons and large livestock that would be bringing goods from the farmlands. It would be an easy avenue to lose guards, especially when they would have to avoid getting trod over. Bofur wouldn’t have to worry too much as being a dwarf and slightly shorter allowed him to slip under the large creatures without much worry. The only downside of that particular escape was an open thoroughfare that ran the length of the city and it was harder to slip into the back alleys. 

His other option was an alleyway half a block to the south. It was a narrow, twisting corridor that went between several residential buildings and came out onto the street near the Yellow Quarter. It would be an ideal place to lose the guards as there were several possible exits once inside the tiny labyrinth, but there was also a greater risk of getting cornered. 

“By Durin of course this wasn’t gonna be easy,” he muttered, scanning the area once more and taking note that there were at least six guards on ground, a pair at each of the streets that converged into the square. That wasn’t including the two he saw in the bell tower on the northern edge of the market.

“So I’m thinkin’ we take the back alley, Bilbo. That’ll give us— ow!” 

Bofur yelped, hand coming up to where a tiny fae was pulling on his earing. Its skin was the colors of the autumn leaves, though this changed depending on the season. Its eyes were a bright vibrant green, and it’s ears curved into small points. A small tufts of curly reddish-gold locks bounced about its round face as it chirped loudly at the dwarf. 

“What gives?!” Bofur complained, shooing the tiny creature away from his earing. It dodged his hand easily, shifting into a small squirrel and scampering down Bofur’s back and onto the cobblestones.

Bofur grumbled irritably at the creature as it bounded up onto a stack of crates nearby, the wee thing giving him the stingiest look it could before continuing to squeak furiously at him. Bofur rolled his eyes, glancing up the alleyway to make sure it was empty, before scooting over to it. 

“Ya think I want to do this?” he hissed, “I’ve got—”

It squeaked aggressively at him, shifting back into its original form before clicking twice and tapping its forearm three times. Bofur sighed, rubbing his hand against his temples.

“Look, you’re right. It was a bad idea,” he confessed, running a tired hand down his face “And I know you don’t much like this, but I gotta do this.”

The fae plopped down into a sit, crossing its arms and turning up its nose. For such a tiny creature Bilbo held a fire equal to that of a dragon. Or at least when it came to trying to get what it wanted, though Bofur had cared for the creature long enough to not fall so easily for its tricks. 

Bofur let out an exasperated groan and looked back out toward the market. A jeweler’s stall sat just across the street from them, laden with ornate pieces of bronze and silver inlaid with ruby and emerald. There were gold necklaces and bracelets and all manner of precious stones that glimmered under the autumn sun. It was some of the finest jewelry in all the land and eagerly sought out by many a noble. It was also the only jeweler to posses one of the last known forged pieces of mithril, a shirt made of the fabled silver steel of Khazad-Dum.

“We’ll have enough to survive winter, maybe even longer,” Bofur said quietly, “I could get Bifur medicine, and Bombur could eat a full meal… I could finally repay Bain and Sigrid…”

Bofur inhaled deeply and turned back to the fae, who now was looking up at him, green eyes no longer harsh. He extended his hand out to let the creature crawl into it, smiling as it climbed up onto his arm. 

“Could even make you a little house to nest in,” he said, “Wouldn’t you like that, Bilbo?” The fae chirped lowly, positioning itself comfortably on Bofur’s shoulder. The dwarf grinned. 

“Nothin’ for it, eh?” he said, standing and brushing himself off. He checked for his lock picks, his knife and the cloth to wrap the mithril in: all accounted for. Bofur took a deep breath and stepped out into the street.

\--

The color of the stone was the first thing that caught his eye as he passed over the bridge to the front gates. It was unlike the halls of Erebor where the deep green marble soaked up the golden light of the braziers. Here the stone reflected the sunlight, illuminating the yellow bricks against the deep burgundy red of the shingled roofs. There was a reason it was called the Golden City.

He passed through the gates with little trouble, staying to the sides of the wide thoroughfare as large wooden carts pulled by oxen brought all manner of produce into the city. Bundles of wheat and barley sat stacked upon crates of tomatoes and carrots. The faint clinking of glass wine bottles could be heard as the cart came to a halt at the customs stall. 

Thorin watched the carts pass by, taking note of the different insignia branded on the wood. Most were local, bearing the golden eagle of Dale though a few more elegant carts passed by with the unmistakable coiling branches signature of the Woodland Realm. Thorin scoffed quietly to himself before turning and making his way through the throng and up the pathway. There were several open-air shops ahead where the fresh aroma of salted pork and roast chicken wafted into the street from carefully kindled stone hearths. A baker called out his fare of the day, ‘crisp herbed boule and warm pumpkin scones for just three silver!’. 

The prince took a moment to look over the breads. It was close to noon and he hadn’t considered packing something to eat in his excitement to sneak out of the kingdom. He settled for a small loaf of sourdough, giving the baker a polite smile as he exchanged three silver coins before tucking the bread into his pack and continuing along the stalls. 

Dale consisted primarily of human residents, and while there were a handful of dwarven merchants who set up shop within the city walls Thorin was relieved that he did not have to worry much about running in to anyone who might recognize him. 

The thoroughfare forked ahead, one path leading to the east where it wove through several tall buildings up to a large domed building at the city’s pinnacle. The other path led west down into what looked like a residential area. Thorin wondered down the westward path, falling into step with some textile merchants who were carrying round wicker baskets filled with fine silks on their backs. This area was relatively less crowded which relieved him a bit but it also meant he could take in surroundings a bit more without being pushed along by the crowd. 

The buildings in this area were no higher than two stories. Some had balconies lined with creeping vines that had bright pink blossoms, while others were decorated with patterned banners of red, gold and blues. Down the narrow alleyways between the buildings Thorin could see groups of women sitting upon the back steps of their homes scrubbing linens in wide brimmed buckets. Their voices carried up the brick walls and out to the street, most of it indistinct chatter though a couple times he was able to catch the words of a song. It reminded him of the few times he accompanied his mother when she would take their wash to the wells and he could hear the songs of the maids rise up from the pools below. It was oddly nostalgic and comforting in a way he only realized now. 

Thorin pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself and broke off down an alleyway that led him to a small empty courtyard where bubbling fountain stood at its center. He glanced around to make sure he was alone before slipping his hood off and making his way over to sit on the edge of the fountain. He watched the water absentmindedly as he munched on his bread, taking in the distant lulled sounds of the people on the street and the distinct trickling of water from the fountain’s spout as it fell down the stone into the pool. 

The twittering of a thrush pulled his attention to one of the rooftops, the tiny bird perched on the edge of the awning tapping what looked to be a small snail against the ceramic shingle. 

“Taking your lunch as well,” Thorin called up to the bird, chuckling a little at how absurd the situation might look to outsiders. While dwarves may be children of the stone there were a select few animals in Middle Earth they had great affinity for. The Ereborian rams were the most widely known, due more to the fact that they were actively bred in most of the dwarven kingdoms. Next to them were the ravens, clever and intelligent birds often used as messengers between the kingdoms. Erebor prided itself for its ravens, revering the creatures so much that their likeness was inlaid into the royal crown. The final of these animals were the thrushes that lived in the forests that surrounded the Lonely Mountain. Not many understood the relationship between the dwarves and these tiny woodland birds, though some speculated it was more just a phenomena of a shared environment.

The bird paused before fluttering down and landing on the edge of the fountain just shy of where Thorin sat, the snail still clasped inside its beak. It sported a white underbelly with light brown feathers on its head and wings and long fanning tail feathers. It regarded the dwarf with curious beady black eyes before resuming tapping the snail on the stone. 

The shell cracked open after a few more taps and the tiny bird quickly gobbled down the soft meat of the snail. Thorin observed this with some amusement, breaking off a tiny piece of his bread and holding it out. The thrush eyed the morsel, hopping cautiously up to the dwarf’s hand and quickly nabbing a piece. Just as it had with the snail it swallowed the bread in a couple gulps before moving in for more. 

Once the last crumbs were eaten up the thrush hopped back to where the remains of the snail shell laid on the fountain. It poked through the piece before taking flight and disappearing over the rooftops. Thorin watched after it almost wistfully, wondering what it would be like to soar over the hills and up into the never-ending whiteness of the clouds with naught a care in the world. Would time just flow ever onward? Would the plights of the world cease to exist?

He sighed heavily, his gaze falling to the small golden band around the middle finger of his right hand. Its surface was so cleanly polished that it reflected the buildings within it, almost as though it were a mirror. Around its edges were two thin blue bands of sapphire. Thorin turned it slowly around his finger till he could see the engraving, murmuring the words to himself and quietly resolving to continue his exploration. 

The snail shell fragments he deposited into a pile of dried vegetable clippings near one of the buildings before wiping his hands clean and pulling the hood over his head once more. Thorin took one more look over the quiet courtyard. Maybe one day he’d have the freedom to return here. 

\--

Anyone who had the privilege to grace the halls of Erebor would know that the kingdom’s beauty lay in its stonework. The battlements that surrounded the front gates were but a fraction of the magnificence that lie within the mountain. Those who were able to recount their visits described it as a wondrous fortress filled with golden light and long green walkways that stretched for stories into the deep of the mountain and would seemingly take days to explore. And even then the mines below stretched even further, tunneling to depths so dark that only small groups of miners were sent down at a time. Some say it was deep in this darkness where they found the radiant jewel that sat upon the king’s throne; the Arkenstone. 

This pure white jewel that glistening with hues of red and blue marked Erebor as the mightiest dwarven kingdom and many thought its magic was what brought good fortune and prosperity to the mountain and to the royal line. 

“Do you not think there are other such stones out there, your majesty?” 

“You say it as though it is our duty to trouble ourselves with the lifeblood of other mountains, Sorrel,” King Thrain retorted from his place at the desk. They were in the study, Thrain pouring over various missives. He read briefly through a proposal from the Miner’s Guild, something regarding better compensation for work related accidents, as there had been several rather nasty incidents in the western mine shafts. Improper equipment set up according to the foreman working at the time. 

“They hold great power, as you know,” the elf reminded, brushing a long strand of red hair behind a pointed ear as he absentmindedly studied the shelves of tomes that lined the study walls, “The heart of a mountain is not so small a prize that foreign diplomats would refuse their exchange.” 

Thrain regarded his advisor with a raised brow. 

It was an odd relationship that not many understood: a dwarven king with an elven advisor. While many believed elves were wise and fair beings whose wisdom extended far beyond many of those in Middle Earth, history revealed that elves and dwarves rarely got along and often were at odds. 

The presence of Sorrel in the court of the wealthiest and mightiest dwarven kingdom was sure to turn heads, and it certainly did not earn much approval from other dwarven leaders. Many saw it as a recipe for treason and that the elves were attempting to undermine and overthrow the prosperity the dwarves had built up over generations. It was no secret that the elves valued many of the precious gems that the dwarves pulled from the earth, particularly diamonds and white gems. And what better way to gain that control by infiltrating Erebor.

At least that was the argument, though the accusations did not hold up well considering Sorrel held no connections to any of the elven settlements. While one might believe he was from Mirkwood due to his bright red hair, he held himself in much the same way as the high elves of Lorien. He held wisdom that could not be attributed to woodland origin.

“Just give it some thought, your majesty,” the elf added, gliding leisurely to the doorway, “I don’t mean to press you toward a decision you have not had the time to think over.” 

With that the elf made his exit, turning left down the corridor and making his was briskly to the upper chambers. On the way a messenger waved him down, a small envelop in their hands. He took it graciously, carefully breaking the seal and pulling the note from within. A knowing smile spread across his lips. 

“Would you send word to have my horse readied,” he turned to the messenger, “I make for Dale.”

\--

Bofur couldn’t help the smug grin that plastered itself on his face as he dashed around the next corner. While the guards had been alerted to the thievery Bofur’s plan went of without a hitch. It was only then he slipped into the alleyway that the stall keeper realized the mithril had been stolen and called the guards after him. 

The next corner brought him into a small courtyard behind some houses, though not after he knocked over a stack of wicker baskets in the process and spilling potatoes and carrots over the ground. He would have fell flat on his stomach had he not caught himself on a barrel. The commotion drew the attention of several residents who were busy with chores in the courtyard, a few children looking on in awe from where they crouched playing with some marbles. Bofur gave them a smile and a wink before sprinting past them. 

“Yes, yes, I know Bilbo!” he hissed, hastily tucking the fairy into his scarf as it squeaked at him. “The street isn’t far, just hold on!” 

He ignored the angry yells of the owner whose wares he’d tipped over, slipping down another alleyway that he knew would lead him out into the Brown Quarter. The disgruntled shout of the guards far behind him only spurred him to the next corner. Up ahead he could see the opening between two stalls that would lead him out into the busy street and for a moment he thanked the high noon because today was a busy day in the Brown Quarter. If luck would have it he could slip away into the crowd and the guards would be none the wiser. By the time they tore open the street he’d be long gone. 

Bofur pulled over a stack of crates behind him, just for good measure, before he ducked out into the crowd and into the most striking blue eyes he’d ever seen. He barely had time to register that there was indeed a person in front of him before his momentum knocked them both onto the cobblestone. A lot of what happened next he couldn’t quite remember. Everything from the moment they fell to when he heard the shout of the guards was a blur. He did remember mumbling out a rushed apology but that was before he hastily pulled the individual to their feet and urged them to run. 

Bofur wasn’t quite sure when it happened but at some point he grabbed the stranger’s wrist, yelling something along the lines of ‘staying together’ as they sprinted through the streets. 

“Where are you taking me?!” they demanded.

To which he responded, “On an adventure!” 

And to a degree it was an adventure, or at least as much of an adventure a poor dwarf like himself could create for himself. When they got to the western edge of Dale where the street opened up to the hillside below Bofur instructed his companion to jump over the railing, down onto one of the goats tethered below and to ride it up the gangway. 

“I’ll meet you just ahead,” he reassured, waving at them get on over. They had to lose the guards somehow. 

It took some convincing, and the shouts of the guards, but eventually his companion leapt over the side. Bofur made sure they managed to mount and untether the goat before turning to wave the guards his direction. At their renewed pursuit he turned and sprinted down the boardwalk.

“Ready to work some of your magic, Bilbo?” he breathed excitedly. The fae crawled out from where it hid in his scarf and chirped. 

Bofur quickened his pace as the junction between the street and the gangway came into view, and just as he timed it his companion back roaring up the ramp on the goat. 

“Now Bilbo!”

In that moment the fae then let out a shrill, high-pitched chirp that reverberated off of every stone surface within the vicinity. The call did more than just turn all eyes toward them, as a large flock of black meadow birds suddenly swooped up from the hillside and descended onto the street. Calm turned into chaos with guards and merchants and residents running about as the birds soared and swooped over their heads. Bofur let out a laugh as he vaulted up onto the back of the goat. He took one last look at the excitement behind them before directing his companion to take them down the next ramp and up the cliff side toward Ravenhill.


	2. An Unlikely Meeting

Sorrel looked between the guards and the merchant, disbelief not quite apparent on his fair features though the steely glaze over his eyes was enough to indicate he was not impressed. When he entered the city he could sense immediately that something was off, if not for how the townsfolk buzzed about the chase down in the market and the bird attack near the western boardwalk. It took him little time to inquire about the source of the commotion and he was less than pleased to discover its origin.

“Could you explain to me again what happened?” he turned to the merchant. The man stuttered over his words, looking back toward his stall as if the thing could help him recollect his thoughts. His knuckles had gone white with how tightly he was wringing his hat.

“Well… It was like any other day. Opened the stall as usual,” he started, “I received the item you required naught but an hour before I sent you the letter. I figured it was secure enough in the lockbox and would make for an easier exchange when you arrived.”

“Go on,” the elf urged, stealing over to the stall inquisitively. There was a strange coating of dust over the smooth wooden surface that Sorrel ran his finger through. It wasn’t dirt and it certainly wasn’t pollen.

“The next thing I know there’s this big cloud of… powder— or something like that. Thought for a second it was just some kids pulling a prank,” the merchant chuckled nervously, “they’ll do that from time to time-"

“Did you smell anything?”

“Pardon?” The man fell silent.

“A fragrance of sorts,” The elf elaborated, wiping the dust from his finger.

The merchant frowned in thought, “Now that you mention it… there was something. Almost a fruit-like aroma… like a perfume or something.”

“Intriguing… the elf murmured to himself, procuring a small glass vile from his cloak and brushing some of the dust into it, “So faes still linger...”

Such creatures were thought to have gone extinct and yet one decided to reveal itself, In Dale of all places. And had apparently allied itself with a cunning thief.

“I apologize for the inconvenience this has caused you,” the elf turned to the merchant, “I will ensure that you are compensated for the trouble and any damaged goods.”

The man gave him a meek nod, mumbling out an apology of his own which the elf paid little mind to. He concern was more with _who_ would have known the mithril was being transported, and to where. He had made sure correspondence about the item was limited to a few so either one of them let the information slip or someone learned about its transport.

Then there was the matter of this thief and fae. If it was as he heard, and this was the work of a lowly vagabond then perhaps this individual possessed qualities that could be put to better use. After all, one does not simply steal mithril without knowingly putting a target on their back. 

“Take me to the western boardwalk,” he ordered. 

\--

Once the adrenaline had finally run its course Thorin was able to focus more clearly on his surroundings. Dale had disappeared beyond the hill behind them and up ahead he could see the rugged outline of the buildings of Ravenhill. 

As they neared the bridge to cross into the ruins Thorin pulled the goat to a halt. In the early days of Erebor’s foundation Ravenhill served as the center of trade between the east and west. It had been a wondrous city, very similar to Dale, full of splendor and riches. Now it was nothing more than a skeleton. Many called it the Beggar’s City.

“Well, that was exciting,” the strange dwarf chuckled, slipping off the saddle. Thorin turned his attention from the city and dismounted as well. 

Now that they were alone the prince was able to get a better look at this stranger. He didn’t look much older than Thorin. His eyes were dark brown and seemed to sparkle with life, and the wrinkles around his eyes filled with friendly jest. Though his skin was slightly weathered, there was still youthfulness in his features, just on the cusp of coming-to-age. 

The dwarf’s wavy, dark brown hair was parted into two braids that extended out from under his knit hat and sat easily against his shoulders. His beard, if it could be called that, consisted of a small patch on his chin that was framed by the long combed lengths of his mustache at the edges of his mouth. The rough yellow tunic he wore looked like it had seen better days, though the triangular patters along the shoulders and lapels indicated it had been of good stock, likely passed down through the family. A worn leather belt secured it and the sizable pouch at the dwarf’s hip. 

“Is it often that you’re running from the guards?” Thorin smirked, crossing his arms over his chest in amusement. The dwarf shrugged and adjusted his lapels good-naturedly. 

“On good days, no. On swell days, maybe” he replied, rather chipper, “Is it often a noble takes to a poor dwarf’s schemes with such enthusiasm?”

Thorin’s eyes widened. Instinctively his hands went to his hair. The beads were still hidden but he just realized his hood had slipped off in the escape. He heard the dwarf chuckle as he was pulling his hood about his shoulders more. 

“I’m just foolin’ with ya,” the dwarf waved his hands. Thorin eyed him cautiously before lowering his hands back to his sides. 

“What makes you think I’m a noble?” the prince inquired.

The dwarf took a step forward and pointed to the embroidery along Thorin’s tunic, “That’s Ered Luin silver thread. Imported from the Blue Mountains. ‘Tis the only thread that’s got that shimmer to it.”

Thorin glanced down at his tunic. Sure enough he could see the iridescent colors reflecting back at him under the sunlight. 

“A spool of that costs an arm and a leg,” the dwarf laughed, “Seen plenty a noble seek it out.” 

The dwarf’s eye for quality goods was both intriguing and a bit concerning to the prince. Intriguing in the sense that the dwarf knew enough about the thread that he could identify its origin and price. That came with an understanding of goods exchange and an observation of market trends. The part that concerned him was the type of people who looked liked they worked as a stable hand, and knew that information, were usually one type of person: a thief. 

“You have… an excellent eye,” was all the prince found he could respond with. If he let his surprise slip through the strange dwarf made no indication he noticed. 

“I suppose I should introduce myself,” the dwarf suggested, extending his hand, “Name’s Bofur.”

Thorin flicked his gaze down to the hand. He hadn’t considered actually interacting with anyone beyond a simple exchange in the market. 

“Pleased to meet you, Bofur,” Thorin returned shaking the dwarf’s hand tentatively, “I am... Frerin.” 

“Good to know ya, Frerin!” 

Despite the trepidation gnawing in the back of his mind Thorin found the unthreatening aura surrounding Bofur to be quite odd. The prince thought it might be attributed to the dwarf’s jovial energy and goofy appearance but anyone could easily fake those qualities to get someone to lower their guard. Regardless, even the most skilled actors couldn’t completely mask their true intentions, and from what Thorin could see in Bofur’s eyes there was nothing of that sort. Bofur didn’t seem to notice the hesitation in his introduction either, which relieved Thorin a bit but he resolved to keep his guard up just in case. 

“I suppose I can show you my place,” Bofur’s voice broke into his thoughts. Thorin turned his gaze to Ravenhill. If not for the thin trails of smoke that rose up between the desolate, crumbling buildings he might think the place just an abandoned city. 

He could hear the cautionary voice of his father in the back of his mind, but he let his curiosity push the warning away. 

“Lead the way,” he insisted. 

\--

To say he was surprised that this proper dwarf hadn’t tried to escape or pull a knife on him yet would have been an understatement. In fact his befuddlement continued when he thought it an excellent idea to invite them into Ravenhill. Any noble would have turn tail and ran to a guard, it happened before many times, so the fact it wasn’t happening now left him uneasy. 

Bilbo’s quiet squeak drew his attention, the fae crawling out from its hiding spot in his scarf to peek back at the other dwarf, before giving Bofur a chirp of curiosity.

“I don’t know…” Bofur whispered, “It just... came out. I’ll play it safe, don’t worry...” 

The fae made a grumbling noise before crawling back into the scarf and nestling against Bofur’s neck. 

Truth be told he hadn’t really thought out the rest of this. 

As far as he was concerned his dwarven companion had remained unaware of the mithril, and unaware that was why the guards were after him in the first place. If they did know he made no indication of it. Which was better than ‘worse’ right now. Besides, it wouldn’t be much longer before they reached the far western end of the city and, once there, Bofur could discreetly hide the mithril until he needed to take it to his buyer. Until then he just needed to play it cool.

A few times he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t lost Frerin but the dwarf was close, ensconced by their surroundings and picking their way along the street carefully and cautiously.

‘Noble folk,’ Bofur chuckled amusedly to himself. Maybe he didn’t need to worry too much. 

The thoroughfare turned north just past the old market and it was there that Bofur lead them up a long flight of stairs to the upper street. The sun had fallen a bit lower in the sky, its golden rays cutting sharp shadows across the jagged stonework of the lookout tower ahead. A few ravens cawed back and forth in conversation from the shingled roof, and the weathered banner blew gently in the wind as if it was welcoming him back. Bofur let out a relieved sigh at the sight. 

“Home sweet home,” he smiled, pulling back his scarf to let the fae out. Bilbo clicked happily and shifted into a small hummingbird before buzzing off toward the entrance to the tower.

Bofur watched it disappear around the corner before turning back to check on Frerin again. He was surprised to find the dwarf had stopped a few steps back and was staring out toward Erebor through the space between a few of the buildings. There was an innocent wonder flowing through the dwarf’s clear blue eyes that Bofur recognized almost immediately. It was the same he saw in his brother’s eyes when he brought home a trinket from the market, or when he left a few apples for the twins who lived down the street. 

“Quite a sight, huh,” he called down. Frerin glanced up at him before continuing up the last few steps, “View’s better from the tower, if you fancy.”

“Of course,” Frerin responded. Bofur smiled and led his companion into the tower, casually setting the satchel of mithril on a barrel next to the table, though not to disturb the contents. 

“Just up the stairs,” he offered, “Care for an apple or... something?” The sooner he could get a moment to himself the sooner he could put the mithril in a more secure place. 

“That’s kind of you, but no thank you.” Frerin smiled. Bofur shrugged and grabbed one for himself as the other dwarf made their way up the stairs.

Bofur waited until Frerin was out of sight before taking the satchel and walking it over to a chest hidden in the corner of the room behind some old sacks. He quickly tossed the thing inside before securing the padlock and covering it once more, a wave of relief flowing over him.

A yelp from upstairs drew his attention and he quickly dashed up the stairs to see what the commotion was about. Upon making it to the top step he saw Frerin struggling to untangle a braid from hook next to the window while Bilbo scampered around their boots.

“Oh bugger… Bilbo stop that!” Bofur admonished, lunging at the fae before it could attempt to pull Frerin’s hood down over their face. The tiny creature squeaked furiously in Bofur’s hands, chomping down on the dwarf’s finger.

“Oh, don’t even start that,” Bofur grumbled. He grabbed a small perfume bottle from the table next to the stairs and spritzed it in the air around the fae. The aroma slowly calmed the fae down enough that Bofur could set it back inside its nest. 

“Durin’s beard, I’m sorry about this,” he apologized. After he was sure Bilbo had calmed down enough he hurried over to assist Frerin in unraveling the braid from the hook. The dwarf looked rather put off, and slightly embarrassed at the situation, but thanked Bofur for the help.

“Bilbo isn’t normally that way,” Bofur tried to explain, after Frerin assured him the situation was alright, “Least not for anything but the nest.”

Frerin gave him a quizzical look before turning to gaze at the fae’s nest. 

“You call it ‘Bilbo’?,” they asked.

Bofur nodded. 

“What is it, if I may ask?” 

Bofur offered for them to sit at the seat by the window before beginning his explanation. He always felt a little bit of reservation around the fae that he couldn’t quite put to words. Perhaps it was because he nursed the creature to health, and felt a bit protective of it because of that. It was something of a rarity, he knew, but either way there was only so much to hiding the truth of its existence. 

“It’s a fae,” Bofur said finally, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of ‘em?”

Frerin glanced back over to the nest, “A spirit of the forest…” they said in awe, “I have. Only in stories though. They’re thought to be a myth…”

Bofur watched as Frerin stood and pulled forth one of the braids, loosening one of the shiny silver beads from it and carefully walking over the nest. Bilbo was busy inside the small enclosure moving the straw and feathers and cloth around but stopped to peer out when Frerin knelt a little ways from the entrance. 

“I want to apologize for disturbing your home,” the dwarf said softly, “I didn’t realize and I’m sorry.”

It was an intriguing sight to behold. There were so few that knew of Bilbo’s existence, and those who did often kept their distance. Whether it was out of fear or superstition, Bofur couldn’t tell.

Frerin, it seemed, understood something more about the fae than most. When he placed the tiny bead near the entrance Bilbo slowly crawled out and inspected the offering with interest. It was not until Bilbo picked up the trinket with a content chirp and took it inside the nest that Frerin slowly moved away and back over to where Bofur sat. 

“Color me impressed,” Bofur breathed, “I’ve not seen anyone do that...” 

Frerin shrugged, a small smile forming on their lips that made Bofur’s heart beat a bit faster. 

“Many of the old tales describe the fae as being delicate creatures who are fickle and cunning,” Frerin explained, “They are not to be angered, and if they are it’s best to make an apologetic offering to them.” 

Bofur hummed in acknowledgment. If what Frerin said was true then Bilbo’s changing moods made all the sense in the world. What did make Bofur wonder though was how he managed to not get a curse or something placed on him. He hadn’t always been right with the fae. 

“I don’t suppose you know anything about how to sate a fae’s appetite,” Bofur joked, “The wee thing eats more than I do.”

“It seems to trust you,” Frerin chuckled, “I think that says a lot about your relationship with it.”

Bofur considered the information with a renewed perspective. Trust was such a funny thing in his life it almost felt odd to use it to describe his and Bilbo’s relationship. He’d always found trust to be dangerous, and not given freely, but perhaps in caring for the creature he had unknowingly fostered a relationship of trust. 

“You were right about the view,” Frerin’s voice pulled Bofur from his thoughts. He turned to the window, following his companion out onto the small balcony after securing the curtain back a bit more. The cool afternoon breeze rustled the old banner that hung from the railing, and just below them a couple of birds settled into a bed of twigs tucked between the stonework.

“In the early morning you can see the goat herders move the flocks up the eastern bank,” Bofur said fondly, “Just when the sun’s peaking over the horizon.” 

Frerin’s mouth broke into a gentle smile, though there was a forlorn look in the dwarf’s eyes that Bofur couldn’t quite read. The low light of the falling sun framed the dwarf’s face such that the edges touched seemed to glow. The long tresses of Frerin’s raven colored hair seemed to soak up the sun’s rays such that Bofur could see bits of a deep warm brown.

“You here for the coronation?” Bofur leaned up against the railing and pulled the apple from his tunic, rubbing the surface free of dust. 

“O-oh…! Yes, of course…” Frerin responded hastily, glancing briefly at Bofur before turning away. Bofur paid it no mind. 

Bofur hummed through a bite of apple. “You a merchant? Or diplomat or something?”

“I… I’m here with my father,” Frerin stated, “From Ered Luin…”

Bofur raised an eyebrow. That was a curious thing, and certainly not what Bofur had expected based upon what he’d gathered from Frerin’s attire. From the faint Ereborian patterns on the dwarf’s tunic, Bofur had been sure that Frerin was a local.

“I’ve always been puzzled by noble folk,” Bofur confessed, “Kingdom, politics that stuff… Seems like nothing changes. There’s always poor, there’s always rich…” 

He saw Frerin shift out of the corner of his eye, though the dwarf said nothing at first. Bofur took another bite of his apple. 

“What do you mean by ‘nothing changes’?” Frerin asked.

Bofur shrugged. All he’d known his whole life was a living dependent upon how many meals they would have. As he grew older and the duty of breadwinner was passed he him, he’d found folk to be less than savory. 

“I suppose I don’t understand what makes something like a coronation so important,” Bofur tried to explain, “It’s just a new noble replacing an old noble. And the world stays the same, or life gets harder.”

He heard Frerin take a breath, though they remained silent for the moment, seemingly lost in thought. Bofur wondered for a moment if he’d said something wrong, though he could not dwell on it as the sound of the horns of Erebor drew both their attention to the far green gates. 

“Must be the changing of the guard,” he mumbled. He glanced over at Frerin expecting to see the same intrigue from before but instead the dwarf looked slightly distressed. 

“If that is the case, I must go,” Frerin said quietly. 

Bofur’s shoulders dropped a bit, “Oh, okay… I can lead you back to the gates—“

“I’ll be alright in making my way back,” Frerin said, rather quickly, fixing Bofur with an affirmative look. 

“Sure,” Bofur nodded, casually waving toward the stairs and following Frerin down. If the slight tightness in his chest was disappointment Bofur tried his best to push it to the back of his mind. This was the reality of his life and something he should expect. Chances were he’d never see Frerin again, but he could not deny that he enjoyed even this small bit of company. 

“You sure you’ll be alright getting back?” he asked again once they made it to the doorway of the tower. Frerin nodded. 

“Thank you for letting me see the city, and your home,” the dwarf gave a slight bow, “That… can take a lot of courage.” 

Bofur tilted his head in puzzlement, but before he could ask Frerin gave him a polite smile and bid him a good day. He didn’t move from his place until he saw Frerin disappear around the end of the street.

The inexplicable fluttering inside his chest got him hurrying back into the tower and up to balcony. Bofur took a couple deep breaths. What an odd day indeed.

He ate a small meal up in the tower while watching the sunlight fade on the green gates of Erebor, all while his mind wandered back to dark hair and striking blue eyes.

“You suppose we’ll meet again?” he asked absentmindedly to Bilbo when the fae joined him for some slices of apple. The creature buzzed lowly through a mouthful of apple. Bofur cut a few more pieces for Bilbo before lying back on the cushions and watching the sunlight fade against the mountainside. 

“Frerin’s alright though,” Bofur insisted, “Gave you that nice shiny bead.”

The fae clicked three times but said nothing more, choosing instead to gorge on the sweet meat of the apple. Bofur chuckled and finished the last of his pieces. Perhaps he could have a little hope. The coronation was still a bit off. Maybe he could find Frerin again in Dale and they could go on another adventure. 

“What a silly thought,” he laughed to himself. 

Somewhere along the rooftops a raven cawed avidly before taking flight. The din of day fell to the twinkling stars and shimmering moon. And far off under the gentle light of torches a young dwarf prince also watched the falling of night, and the distant flickering flames of Ravenhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... I'm okay with how chap turned out. There are some parts I had a hard time writing with this one but nonetheless, here it is!
> 
> Thank you for reading, enjoy!


	3. Business As Usual

To his luck he was able to slip through the front gate unnoticed as the many merchants coming back from Dale left the entry hall bustling with noise and sound. The activity gave him enough cover that he was able to wind his way carefully to the far end of the hall where he then broke off down a long hallway that lead through the armory. Just as he planned Dwalin was waiting outside the doorway of the sparing chamber. The young warrior honed in on him almost immediately.

“About time,” he hissed, taking back the cloak Thorin offered him, “Yer father’s been searhin’ for ya. Master Dori has been in a right panic all day!”

Thorin smirked and stepped smoothly past Dwalin and into the chamber. They crossed the threshold to a set of stairs that led upward several flights to the upper storage rooms. 

“Well, they have not found out yet,” he pointed out, playfully nudging Dwalin against the shoulder, “Maybe you should join me next time.” 

The young warrior scoffed, “And end up cleanin’ blades for the next two weeks? I’ll pass.”

The stairwell turned west before opening up to a long hallway that ran the length of the mountainside. Roaring braziers lit the path with golden light, and cool breeze blew through the tall, regal archways that led out to the overlook. From this far up Dale could be seen radiant against the fading pinks and purples of the evening sky.

Thorin trotted out onto the overlook to take in the sight. One by one he could see the torches illuminate the yellow stonework just below the shingled awnings as the city turned in. Tiny specks of birds could be seen against the sky as they retreated to the forest from the valley, twittering back and forth as the clouds curled into wisps above them. A frost could be smelt on the southward winds that crept down the mountainside, and it wouldn’t be long after the festivities that they’d close the gates of Erebor to weather through the winter.

Thorin found his gaze turning westward toward the dark silhouette of Ravenhill. It looked as empty as when he first looked upon it, though a fleeting flash of golden light here and there teased the presence of those who lived within. Somewhere in those ruins a dwarf with a curious look probably sat huddled about a brazier in the company of a tiny mystical being.

He frowned at the thought.

“Everythin’ alright?” Dwalin’s voice broke through. Thorin glanced to his companion, shaking his head.

“It’s nothing,” he lied, though he could tell Dwalin was unconvinced.

“Ya always get a look in yer eye when yer thinkin’,” the warrior commented, “but it’s not my place to know why.”

Thorin eyed the warrior with a smug expression, “Since when did you become an old stone? You’re starting to sound like Balin.”

“Since never!” Dwalin insisted quickly, straightening his posture and puffing out his shoulders. Thorin laughed and dashed down the corridor jesting something about the warrior and his achy knees while Dwalin sputtered after him. From there the two climbed another set of stairs that took them to the western edge of the kingdom. There they came upon a young dwarf dressed in fine garb and knit grey scarf.

“Welcome back, Prince Thorin,” they greeted, bowing politely. 

Thorin acknowledged them with a nod before continuing on, the dwarf falling in step with Dwalin.

“I am to inform you that the king is requesting your presence for supper,” the dwarf announced, “within the hour.”

Thorin pursed his lips. Court affairs often left his father busy until late in the evening so the fact he was requesting audience meant one of several things. No doubt one of these things was Thorin’s coronation, but also perhaps his absence today. Either way there was no refusing his father’s summons. 

“Thank you, Ori,” he replied, “My father did not mention why?”

“No, your highness,” Ori shook his head.

“Figures…” Thorin mumbled to himself.

Up ahead the corridor split into three paths. It was here Dwalin took his leave of them, bowing respectively before making his way down the south-facing stairwell. Thorin continued straight with Ori until they reached his chambers. 

The young dwarf set about preparing the bath while Thorin shed his boots and tunic on the bench near his closet. His dagger he set on the table by his bed along with his ring, which he carefully set inside a ornamental box with emerald detailed along its sides held in by gold inlays.

From there he made his way into the bath chamber and set about unraveling his braids and removing the silver clasps from his hair. He single bead that remained he set near the mirror, chuckling softly to himself as he remembered how the fae examined the other with such scrutiny. 

“Would you like me to set out an outfit, your highness?” Ori’s voice broke into his thoughts. 

“Yes,” Thorin replied, “The blue one, if you will.” 

“Very good,” Ori bowed, trotting out of the bath chamber.

Thorin watched after Ori until the attendant had disappeared around the corner. The words Bofur had spoken with such distaste arose again in his mind. They had troubled him greatly since leaving Ravenhill and for all his knowledge he could not figure out why. While various rulers held their own ways of governing, and some could become unpopular among their subjects they were selected because someone saw in them qualities befitting of a leader. 

Was it possible that regardless of these qualities the presence of a king did nothing to change even the simplest person’s life? Was it not a king’s duty to serve their subjects to the best of their ability?

Puzzling as the questions were perhaps it was something better answered by his father. The old dwarf was keen on imparting his teachings upon Thorin already, so why not turn the conversation around. The thought made him chuckle. Better to test that theory out tonight then. And perhaps the old dwarf would become too wrapped up in it that he’d neglect to bring up whatever it was that required Thorin’s summons. It was wishful hope that the prince resolved to let go of for now. 

The last of his braid was unraveled and he let himself sink into the warmth of the tub. Maybe he would find Bofur again. And maybe they could have a long conversation, and perhaps from that conversation Thorin would begin to understand.

\--

The faint tickle of something against his nose was what awoke him from sleep. It was confusing and surprising to him, especially when he opened his eyes to find both Bilbo and Bombur staring down at him.

“Durin’s beard!” he shouted, falling off the lounge in a start, which caused both brother and fae to prance around in glee.

“Rise and shine, brother mine!” Bombur cheered, shaking Bofur as he attempted to stand up while Bilbo scampered around him in the form of a cat. 

“Bugger off…” Bofur grumbled, shooing his little brother’s hands away and snatching the fae up from his lap, only for Bilbo to shift into a ground squirrel and jump out of his grasp to follow Bombur down the stairs. 

Bofur rubbed his face of sleep and glanced around the tower. There was a thin layer of damp along the windowsill and balcony but luckily the room was relatively dry. A ray of sunlight filtered through one the upper windows, casting a hard golden light on the old banner that hung by the balcony. He’d need to find firewood at some point. 

“Busy day yesterday for you to sleep so soundly?”

Bofur turned at the voice. 

“Ah, Sigrid,” he greeted, righting himself and straightening his tunic into a more appropriate presentation, “Good mornin’.” 

The human girl smiled kindly to him as she set down a basket of linens on the adjacent seat. She was no older than a couple decades but held herself as though she’d lived at least four. Being the eldest of three, she relegated most of her time to caring for her younger brother and sister after a harsh winter left them without a father. 

It was by chance that their paths crossed. Bofur was young then, following his cousin Bifur from village to village seeking labor where they could. Bombur was just a few years into his walking stage, and it had been a difficult time. There was little trust in the dwarves’ labor and it was not uncommon that they’d toil under the boot of some stuck up merchant, only to be thrown out later on rumor and gossip. It was during one of these incidents that Sigrid’s father stepped to their aid. 

“Suppose it was a busy day,” Bofur commented, moving to help Sigrid with the folding. There were a few hand cloths on the top that he picked up and sorted by color. 

“You on a job?” she asked. 

“Just about finished one,” he replied, “Gotta meet up with the client today.”

Sigrid hummed thoughtfully but didn’t press for any more information, which Bofur was thankful for. It was kind of an unspoken reality between them, both understanding that some lengths needed to be taken in order to survive. There was an irony to it all but Bofur had trust in Sigrid, just as she did with him, that these tasks were necessary. 

“Are you going out today too, Bo?” Bombur piped up from the stairwell, a couple plates of apple and carrot slices balanced in his hands. Bofur set down the blanket he was folding to help his brother place the dishes on the table without spilling. 

“That I am,” he said, taking up a carrot and popping it into his mouth. Bombur looked downtrodden at the news. Bofur gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 

“I won’t be long today,” he explained, “Once this job is done I’ll hurry on back. Maybe we can even go to the market. I’m sure Sigrid probably needs some supplies also.”

He glanced over to her for confirmation, which she gave though she mumbled something about not troubling them with her errands. Bombur perked up at that. 

“We always help our friends!” the lad stated sagely, standing tall and crossing his arms over his chest. On his shoulder Bilbo mimicked his stance, clicking agreeably. 

“You’re all heart, Bombur,” Sigrid chuckled. 

Bofur grinned at his brother, ruffling his red hair before ushering him to go check on Bifur. The young dwarf complied, giving him a short salute after grabbing a couple more apples and trotting off down the stairs with Bilbo trailing after him.

He returned to the folding though his mind wondered to the mithril locked away downstairs. It was job he really had no choice in. After the last heist went awry he owed it to his client to make up the profit lost. While he suspected he would be paid in full, the sum of what he would get was nothing to blink at. 

“Everything alright?” Sigrid asked concernedly. Now that they were alone Bofur could drop his guard a bit. 

“I’m a bit nervous truthfully,” he confessed. “Not sure why... I mean, I’ve done this hundreds of times before—”

Sigrid placed a reassuring hand over his. Her expression was stern but sympathetic. 

“That doesn’t mean it gets easier,” she said softly. Bofur let out a dry laugh. How foolish of him to let his nerves get to him. He knew Sigrid was right. This life afforded no missteps. It was a thin silver thread stretched out across a bottomless valley where the threat of giving way hovered overhead like buzzards over carrion. 

“Don’t suppose it ever will,” he sighed. 

The sun was reaching midmorning and soon the streets of Dale would be bustling with commerce once again. Bofur packed the mithril back into his pouch carefully before strapping his short dagger to his waist under his tunic. For good measure he slipped a few shivs into the fur lining of his boots. He decided to forego his scarf and hat for something a bit more discrete but not overtly noticeable. His hair he placed in a single braid as well. 

A soft chirp to his right drew his attention. Bilbo gazed up at him curiously, the fae’s bright green eyes sparkling in the soft light. Bofur smiled and held out his hand, letting the fae scamper up his arm to his shoulder. From there the fae climbed down into a pocket that sat just inside the lapel of Bofur’s tunic. It was a secure spot and quite comfortable for the tiny creature. 

“Ready to go?” he asked the fae. Bilbo gave a short, energetic whistle. 

Bofur glanced about the room one last time before descending the stairwell with haste. 

\--

As Bofur expected Dale was bustling with activity, the streets seemingly more crowded than the day before which was hard to believe but here it was. His destination was an old smithy in the Brown Quarter. Fairly unassuming from the exterior, and ordinary on the interior, save the latch that sat adjacent to a tall stone hearth

It was here that he came to face with a grungy man dressed in a blacksmith’s tunic, a long pipe hanging from his lips and an ill-favored look in his eye. The man looked Bofur up and down before pulling his pipe from his lips.

“Your brand,” he ordered

Bofur nodded and pulled back the left sleeve of his tunic to reveal an intricate seal wrapping about his wrist. The man squinted down at in carefully before giving a grunt of approval and rapping on the wall three times. The sound of latches could be heard and after a moment the planks pulled back and Bofur was lead down a dim stairwell into a tavern below. 

The den was almost as busy as the streets above though the louts who hung to the barstools and the dice tables were nothing more than street rabble and vagabonds. The laughed and cheered and spilled brown ale to a dreadful jig and a squeaking fiddle. 

A tiny chirp from Bilbo drew Bofur’s attention from the ruckus around him. He reassured the weary fae with a quiet click and a gentle pat before hastening his pace after the escort. 

They exited the tavern through an adjacent doorway that led into another hallway, though this one was furnished lavishly. At the end stood two large double doors painted in a bold red. Gold accents ran the length of the crossbeams while the metalwork glinted in shiny steel. 

“Wait here,” the escort ordered.

Bofur complied and watched as the escort disappeared behind the double doors, leaving him to the stillness of the hall. He took in his surroundings noting the only other doors lay at the opposite end of the hall. Should he need to make a break for it his best bet would be to pass back through the tavern. No doubt the den master had thugs posted throughout the building, and those thugs were well aware of Bofur’s presence. If push came to shove Bofur would do his best to get out in one piece, and if he had to he could call upon Bilbo, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to involve the fae in this any more than he already had. 

The creaking of the doors drew his attention as the same escort emerged, followed by a hobbit dressed in a dark leather outfit and cloak. 

“Fyri,” Bofur acknowledge with a slight tilt of his head.

“Well well,” they smirked, looking Bofur up and down, “I should have expected you to be the only lout capable of this job.”

“Besides yourself, I take it?” Bofur threw back evenly.

Fyri tsked, but said nothing, though Bofur could see the twinkle in the hobbit’s eyes that indicated this banter as more playful than hostile. 

“You lovebirds done,” the escort drawled, “The master’s waiting.”

“Oh, don’t go gettin’ your slip in a bunch,” Fyri barked at the escort, effectively shutting the man up before turning to Bofur, “Your blade.”

Bofur nodded, slipped his dagger off his waist, handing it over easily. Fyri raised an eyebrow at him when he indicated it was the only weapon on him, though they let their suspicion slide and beckoned Bofur through the doors. 

The room was even more lavishly decorated that the hall. At its center stood a large wooden desk covered in papers and brilliant oddities crafted from gold and silver. Finely threaded carpets lined the floors alongside animal pelt rugs and on the wall hung a large painted portrait. From what he could see there was no overt exit out of this compound save for the way he had come, though he suspected there were hidden passageways only the den master and a select few others knew of. 

“Well is this the one?” a large man dressed in fur-lined robes bellowed into the room. 

Bofur hadn’t seen him come in so the outburst startled him. The man was a tall, rather round fellow, with a thinly clipped mustache that spike out to the corners of his mouth. The hair on his head was nothing more that wisps of what was once bright red hair, and freckles dotted his balding forehead. He carried a clear glass of brandy in one hand, his fingers adorned with several large rings. 

“It is, your lordship,” the escort replied.

“Then what are we dallying for?” he grunted, taking a seat at the desk and downing the last of his brandy. The den master was quite a bit different than Bofur had expected though from the looks of the man it was apparent he was lying in riches, most likely from these heists. It was a wonder what the man did with such trinkets once in his possession. Did he sell them to the highest bidder? Did he cheat the wealthy? Or was it common folk like himself that would be cheated?

The satchel was taken from him carefully by Fyri and placed on the desk where the master laid the mithril before a magnifying glass. 

“Remarkable!” he exclaimed as he looked over the details of the piece, “Silver steel, not seen in these parts for hundreds of years.” 

“Indeed so, sire,” the escort commented. Fyri rolled their eyes but made no comment. 

“What is your name lad?” the man inquired. 

“Tis Mattock, sir,” Bofur responded carefully. 

Then man hummed in acknowledgement before clapping loudly, standing from his chair and thumping over to a large safe in the corner of the room. The mithril was placed gently inside.

“Well, Mattock, you’re in luck,” the man boomed, “What do you say, three seven?”

Bofur thought a moment. He’d have to play this correctly or he’d end up with less than what the task was worth. Seven was too high, but he might have a chance going just a bit lower.

“Six,” he proposed. The man frowned.

“Four.”

“Five seven.”

“Five.”

He could try and push five seven but Bofur knew there was only so much pushing to be done. 

“Five five,” he proposed. The master contemplated the proposal a moment before nodding agreeably. Bofur felt himself relax a bit.

“Very well, five five it is.”

The counting of coin took a bit, so Bofur though about what he would do with the coin. There would be enough to stock up on food for the winter for both his family and Sigrid’s, plus a little extra. It was a better deal than he could have hoped for.

The five small sacks of coin were presented to him, three he put in the pouch at his hip and two he tucked into the pockets of his tunic. He thanked the master for the business, and was led back out into the hallway by Fyri. Neither of them spoke until they entered the tavern and Fyri offered to buy him a drink, to which Bofur agreed for old time’s sake. The dark ale was to Bofur’s particular liking so they ordered two mugs of that and sat watching the rabble around them.

“Haven’t seen you around much,” Bofur commented. 

Fyri gave a half smile, brushing a dark curl out of their face and swirling the ale in their mug. “Business calls me elsewhere. It’s dangerous and exciting as usual.” 

“Indeed,” Bofur tilted his mug. 

“Is the little one still with you?” They asked. Bofur nodded, glancing about the room to make sure no one else was looking before carefully pulling aside his lapel. Fyri smiled when they saw Bilbo peek out momentarily. The fae chirped at them in acknowledgement before snuggling back down in the pocket. 

“One of these days you’re going to have to find a place for the little one,” Fyri mentioned.

“I know,” Bofur sighed heavily. It was a reality that began to weigh on him more and more. While he appreciated the fae’s contribution to his heists and the life he managed for himself he knew that the world was much too unkind for such a delicate creature. And to an extent he knew the fae understood this as well, if not for how the tiny creature would sit upon the windowsill and gaze toward the forests. 

Fyri’s sharp green eyes softened, and though they made no comment they raised their mug as a silent resignation of the conversation. Bofur followed suit, gently tapping the edge against theirs and taking a deep swig. 

They bid farewell not long after. It was reaching midday and Bofur still needed to take the coin back to his tower. As he carefully made his way toward the entrance he brushed up against someone. It was completely accidental but Bofur couldn’t help hoping it would pass without incident. The individual regarded him briefly as he gave a quick apology, politely nodding in acknowledgement before turning away. It was relieving to say the least though he couldn’t shake the feeling that followed him. He checked to make sure he still had his coin, which it was, before hurrying toward the entrance. It felt as though eyes were watching him, but when he turned to look over the tavern he saw no one. 

Regardless he resolved to take the long way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, looks like theres going to be a lot of internal reflection with Thorin and Bofur, lol. Not that it's a bad thing but boy does it get complicated trying to depict that. (sweats)
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was fun to write and I'm excited to see what happens with these few new characters that have entered the story. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and enjoy the update!
> 
> TLDR: I don't really understand how this happened but it seems Bofur may have had past intimate relationships. I just keep getting pansexual Bofur vibes from how this is unfolding, ha ha.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I've had this fic sitting on the back burner for a bit and just now managed to figure out the direction I wanted to take with it. 
> 
> (While my summary describes this as a journey for Thorin, it is most certainly split evenly between him and Bofur. I wasn't sure how to write that into the description but hopefully that can be gleaned from the story.)


End file.
